Cassius skimmed the script in twenty minutes flat. He'd heard of it in his past life but never read it. Now that he was holding the pages, the story felt solid, the kind of writing that came from someone who actually knew what they were doing.
La La Land wasn't just another romance musical. It was a modern fable about art, dreams, compromise, and the choices that break you. Sebastian had real depth. He wasn't some pure idealist—he was an ordinary guy tearing himself apart between what he loved and what he needed to survive.
"Interested?" Damien Chazelle asked.
"Very," Cassius said, closing the script. "But this role is a bitch to play."
He thought for a second. "He loves jazz, but jazz is dying. He wants to stay pure, but rent's due and he's gotta eat. Play the struggle too light and it feels fake. Go too deep and audiences might hate him for it."
"Exactly," Damien said, eyes lighting up. "That's why I don't just need a good actor. I need someone who actually gets what that kind of compromise feels like."
He leaned in. "Sebastian loves jazz, but jazz won't pay the bills. So he plays Christmas songs. He joins a pop band. Every single compromise is killing him a little more, but he keeps doing it because people have to survive."
They talked for another hour. Damien laid out his vision—using old-school musical form to tell a story about modern L.A., shooting on film for that classic texture, writing every song from scratch so it felt both reverent and new.
"If this movie works, it could be a classic," Damien said at the end. "If it fails, nobody might remember it at all. You willing to roll the dice with me?"
Cassius looked at the fire in the director's eyes and remembered what it felt like when he first started out. "Hell yeah."
It was already dark when he left the jazz bar. He slid into the car but didn't start the engine right away. He pulled up the panel and checked the Independent Film Path task. He had The Last Reel of Film and now La La Land. Two down. Eight more to go.
The note was clear: only official awards at major festivals or ceremonies counted. Nominations and special mentions didn't.
His phone buzzed. Soo-yeon had texted: "Oppa, I just got the confirmation email from AMPAS. The Last Reel of Film passed the first round and moved into professional review!"
Cassius smiled and texted back: "Congrats. Now we wait."
The wait would be long. Student Oscar judging took about two months. Reviewers would watch everything anonymously, pick fifteen to twenty semifinalists per category, then a final jury would watch, debate, and vote for gold, silver, and bronze.
Meanwhile, Cassius started piano lessons. He could've just dumped the script into the panel and swept the skills, but he wanted to actually go through the process. This was his role. Sweeping everything at once would skip the part that mattered.
His teacher was Eddie, a jazz veteran in his sixties that Damien had recommended. Eddie's studio was in a quiet Santa Monica side street, tucked between a taco shop and a used record store. No sign on the door, just faded curtains.
The first time Cassius showed up, he almost walked right past it.
Inside was just a Steinway grand, three folding chairs, and black-and-white photos of jazz legends on the walls—Miles Davis, Bill Evans, Thelonious Monk. Eddie said the piano had been with him for forty years. Scratches from moves, worn keys from decades of practice.
"Piano's a brutal instrument," Eddie said on the first lesson. "It won't forgive a single mistake. Hit the wrong key and everybody hears it."
Cassius found out fast how true that was.
"C major scale. Up and down, one octave," Eddie said, putting the sheet music on the stand. "Slow. Sixty beats per minute."
Cassius put his hands on the keys. He knew the fingerings. His brain could picture exactly where each finger should land. But the moment he started playing, his pinky curled up on its own, his ring and middle fingers fought each other, and his thumb kept rushing the beat.
"Wrong note. Again."
Cassius tried again. Still wrong.
"Wrist too high. Again."
Again.
Fewer wrong notes this time, but the rhythm was all over the place.
"You're rushing. It's sixty, not a hundred and twenty. Again."
An hour later his fingertips were red and his back was soaked through his T-shirt. Eddie finally let him stop.
"Fingerings are a mess. Hand position's unstable. Rhythm's—" He stopped. "Barely passing. But the worst part is you're not focused when you play."
Cassius didn't answer. He'd been distracted, thinking about how Sebastian would look at this piano.
"Again. And this time, don't think about anything else."
Cassius put his hands back on the keys. The harder he tried to clear his head, the more thoughts crowded in. The C major scale came out stumbling.
"Alright, that's enough for today. Tomorrow we keep going."
Cassius couldn't argue. Music had never been his strong suit.
Right then a purple orb dropped from Eddie: [Body Control Precision +8]. Cassius absorbed it and felt his fingers suddenly move lighter. The slight drag he'd been fighting when hitting the keys faded. His fingertips landed exactly where he wanted them.
He hadn't expected learning piano to drop attributes. Maybe because he was doing it for a role, the studio was counting as a set?
Two days of basics later, Eddie moved him to Hanon. The same patterns repeated across all twelve keys, hour after hour.
"Why do I have to drill this stuff?" Cassius asked after finishing a C major scale, fingers aching.
"Because your character isn't a rock star. He's a jazz pianist," Eddie said, unusually serious. "Jazz improvisation isn't random playing. It's finding freedom inside rules you already know by heart. You don't even know the rules yet, so your freedom is just noise."
Cassius didn't argue. He kept playing.
Two more days of that and something shifted while he was running an E major scale. His fingers and the keys finally felt connected. He closed his eyes and pictured Sebastian at that piano in the tourist bar, wearing that ugly Christmas sweater, surrounded by loud customers and clinking glasses.
The first feeling that hit him was longing—for the freedom he used to find in this instrument. Freedom he'd already lost.
His fingers moved on their own.
Just a tiny rhythmic shift. He stretched one sixteenth note a fraction longer than the others. It sounded like a sigh.
Right then a purple orb dropped from him: [Musical Emotion Visualization +8]. Cassius absorbed it and suddenly felt his playing fill with real feeling.
"Stop!" Eddie sat up on the couch. "Play that again."
Cassius tried, but when he forced it the feeling disappeared.
"I'm not asking you to copy it. I'm asking you to find the state," Eddie said, walking over. "What were you thinking about just now?"
"The character," Cassius said. "He's playing Jingle Bells in the bar, but he's thinking about Miles Davis."
Eddie stared at him for a few seconds. "Play it again. Your way."
Cassius closed his eyes and pictured Sebastian at that Steinway in the empty tourist bar late at night, wearing that ridiculous sweater, surrounded by noise and clinking glasses. The first thing Sebastian felt when he saw the piano was longing—for the freedom he used to have with this instrument. Freedom he'd already given up.
He pressed the first note.
Slower than it should be. Every note stretched just a little, like fog moving slowly down a street at dawn. The melody line wasn't clean—it was blurry, like a memory that had faded.
He hit a couple wrong notes. Played a B natural where it should've been a B-flat. Cut a chord progression short by half a beat. But Eddie didn't stop him.
Because something else was there.
In the middle section his left hand dropped almost to nothing, just the right hand feeling its way through the high register. Like Sebastian caught between his ideals and reality with no idea how to balance them.
Then even the right hand stopped. A few beats of silence.
When it came back, he repeated the opening phrase exactly the same way—same fingering, same speed—but the feeling was completely different. The first time it had been memory. This time it was goodbye.
The last note faded. For a few seconds the only sound was traffic from the highway outside.
Eddie stood up, walked to the window, turned his back to Cassius, and lit a cigarette.
"You know," he said, voice rough, "when I was twenty I played with Miles Davis once. Not a real gig—just a rehearsal. He needed a piano player to run through the charts. I sat right where you are now, two meters away from him while he played So What and I comped."
He took a drag. "Afterward I told everybody I'd played with Miles. But the truth is, for those twenty minutes I didn't hear a single note. I was too nervous. All I could think about was the chart."
"Later he finished the last phrase, put his horn down, looked at me and said, 'Kid, you played everything right. But not one note was yours.'"
Eddie turned around. "I've told that story to over three hundred students. You're the first one who made me remember it."
He played wrong notes. His technique was rough. His pedaling was a disaster. But every single note he played belonged to him.
While Eddie talked, more orbs dropped from him:
[Improvisational Storytelling +7]
[Cross-Sensory Synesthesia +4]
[Master Experience Transfer Efficiency +9]
Cassius absorbed them and suddenly the traffic outside sounded like brushes on cymbals. When he touched the keys he could feel the weight of every note.
Eddie watched him and thought Cassius had suddenly learned how to speak through the piano.
He'd taught plenty of talented kids. Some went to Berklee. Some became session musicians. A few made names for themselves in jazz. But he'd never seen anyone like Cassius.
"I've got a regular gig in Venice Beach. Two nights a week," Eddie said suddenly. "You want to come play for half an hour? Nothing complicated. Three or four standards."
Cassius blinked. "You mean… perform?"
"What, you think I'm asking you to busk for tips?"
Eddie stubbed out the cigarette. "Your technique's still a long way from ready. You'll hit wrong notes all night. But the crowd won't care. They'll hear the feeling."
"What time?"
Eddie smirked. "Friday at five. Don't be late."
Friday afternoon at five, Cassius parked in the public lot near Venice Beach and checked his collar in the rearview mirror. Eddie had said wear whatever, just don't show up in a suit. Last guy who did that looked like he was there for a funeral.
Cassius went with a dark blue henley and an old leather jacket. In the mirror he looked less like an actor and more like a working musician.
Downstairs, Eddie was loading a keyboard into a beat-up Dodge pickup.
"Drummer and bassist already headed over," Eddie said, strapping the case down. "You're just playing a few tunes tonight. Nothing fancy."
"Got it."
Cassius climbed in. On this he was the rookie, so he listened.
The truck rolled toward the beach, cutting through the graffiti-covered streets of Venice. Tourists took pictures by the canals. Skaters practiced tricks in front of city hall. West Coast light turned everything gold and pink.
The bar was called The Lifeguard Shack. The sign was so faded you could barely read it. It sat in the shadow at the end of the boardwalk, next to a fried squid stand and a souvenir shop that looked like it was going under.
Eddie pushed the door open. The drummer was already tuning up.
"Fucking finally, Eddie," the drummer said. He was in his sixties with a white ponytail and a T-shirt that said "Old Fucks Don't Retire."
"This piano's so out of tune I thought I was going deaf."
"Out of tune is character," Eddie said, setting the keyboard case down. "This is Cass. He's playing a few tonight."
The drummer looked at Cassius, curious. "How long you been playing?"
"Three weeks."
The drumstick in the guy's hand almost hit the floor. He turned and glared at Eddie. "Three weeks? You're putting a guy who's only played for three weeks on stage with me?"
"He's fine," Eddie said. Just those four words.
The bassist came in through the back door then—younger, maybe early thirties, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and carrying an old Fender. He did a double take when he saw Cassius. "Wait, you're the guy who played the Ancient One?"
"Tonight I'm just the piano player," Cassius said with a smile.
The bassist started to say something but the drummer shot him a look and he shut up.
Tuning took twenty minutes. When Cassius tested the piano he could feel the band's tension. They didn't trust him yet. The drummer kept a rigid tempo. The bassist stayed safe with the root notes, giving him no room to stretch.
Cassius didn't push. He just played the first few bars of Autumn Leaves, slow, stretching every note half a beat longer than it should be.
The drummer's sticks froze in the air.
The bassist looked down at his fretboard like flowers had suddenly grown out of it.
"Again," the drummer said.
Second time through, Cassius picked up the pace a little. His left hand dropped low, almost disappearing, while his right hand wandered in the high register. He hit two wrong notes—an F where it should've been F-sharp, a chord that cut off halfway through—but the drummer didn't say anything this time.
When the third run ended, the bassist spoke up. "That wrong note you played… was that on purpose?"
Cassius just smiled.
The bassist was quiet for a few seconds. "It actually sounded good. Better for our band than the original key."
Eddie sat on the couch in the corner, smoking, the corner of his mouth twitching just a little.
"Eddie, you finally made it," the drummer said, looking up from tuning. He was in his sixties with white hair in a ponytail and a T-shirt that read "Old Fucks Don't Retire."
"This piano's so out of tune I thought I was going deaf."
"Out of tune is character," Eddie said, setting the keyboard case down. "This is Cass. He's playing a few tonight."
The drummer looked at Cassius, curious. "How long you been playing?"
"Three weeks."
The drumstick in the guy's hand almost hit the floor. He turned and glared at Eddie. "Three weeks? You're putting a guy who's only played for three weeks on stage with me?"
"He's fine," Eddie said. Just those four words.
The bassist came in through the back door then—younger, maybe early thirties, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and carrying an old Fender. He did a double take when he saw Cassius. "Wait, you're the guy who played the Ancient One?"
"Tonight I'm just the piano player," Cassius said with a smile.
The bassist started to say something but the drummer shot him a look and he shut up.
Tuning took twenty minutes. When Cassius tested the piano he could feel the band's tension. They didn't trust him yet. The drummer kept a rigid tempo. The bassist stayed safe with the root notes, giving him no room to stretch.
Cassius didn't push. He just played the first few bars of Autumn Leaves, slow, stretching every note half a beat longer than it should be.
The drummer's sticks froze in the air.
The bassist looked down at his fretboard like flowers had suddenly grown out of it.
"Again," the drummer said.
Second time through, Cassius picked up the pace a little. His left hand dropped low, almost disappearing, while his right hand wandered in the high register. He hit two wrong notes—an F where it should've been F-sharp, a chord that cut off halfway through—but the drummer didn't say anything this time.
When the third run ended, the bassist spoke up. "That wrong note you played… was that on purpose?"
Cassius just smiled.
The bassist was quiet for a few seconds. "It actually sounded good. Better for our band than the original key."
Eddie sat on the couch in the corner, smoking, the corner of his mouth twitching just a little.